From the Dead
by madam-stardust
Summary: Instead of winning his freedom through Starkweather's murder, Cash is drawn into the director's world. AU, as Rob does not exist, and rated M for gore and eventual slash. Ch5 up, 'Director's Cut': neardeath encounters, and not just for Cash.
1. He Never Dies

_**From the Dead**_

_A Manhunt fanfiction by Madam Luna._

**Chapter One: He Never Dies**

_Note: This chapter title is taken from the movie "He Never Dies" in the Japanese horror film series "Guinea Pig" (which have been mistaken for and reported as snuff films)._

Cash panted and heaved, staring down at the mutilated remains of Lionel Starkweather, his entrails spilled out onto the floor with his messily decapitated head a few feet away. It had been the easiest thing in the world. He'd only had a small handgun with which to keep the most dangerous man in the city at bay--and if the Cerberus's assault rifles hadn't stopped Cash, there would be no way in the world that that pathetic thing would have.

He suddenly felt enormously drained. The chainsaw, rusty and blood-stained in his hands, was too heavy to even lift. His legs gave out and he thumped down onto his ass on the floor, sending the chainsaw clattering down next to him.

"Christ," he breathed, staring blankly at Starkweather's corpse. "One night." One terrifying, bloody night was all that it'd been, just one murder after another after another. Back when they had first met--it made it sound so long ago--Starkweather told his unwilling actor that this would all be over before the night was out. It certainly was, but not in the way he'd anticipated, and the toll it'd taken on Cash's body and mind was unbearable.

He drew his legs up and set an elbow on one of his knees, rubbing at the back of his neck and groaning. Every muscle in his body suddenly felt like it'd been stretched to its limit, and every laceration throbbed sharply now that he was coming out of the dulling haze of the painkillers. He was in pain and exhausted, and he hadn't had any relief from it for the whole night, save when the Cerberus clonked him on the head in order to take him from place to place.

He had to get some sleep and he had to get some food. But he was barely able to lift himself in his state, and as he tried to raise himself to his feet, he groaned at the pain shooting through his body each individual wound, from the tiny glass cuts in his hands to the bullet wound in his thigh. As he tried to walk, he set an unsteady foot down on a puddle of thick blood, slipped, and fell back down onto the floor with a harsh groan.

He paussed as he started to hear something, something very subtle--a sound in the air coming from high above him. A crackling, like static, a sound that was all too familiar. Like something you'd hear right before someone speaks into a microphone...or an intercom.

"Cash...that was a very impressive performance."

God, no. No, no, no, not him, not the man he'd been working all night to kill. Not Starkweather. He was dead. He had to be. He was right behind Cash, laying on his side with his guts all over the floor and his head cut off.

Cash had never talked to Starkweather the whole night, but now was a good time to start. "You're _dead_," he wheezed, trying to drag himself to his feet and failing miserably, scrabbling at the bloody marble. "I killed you, you sick son of a bitch!"

"Do you really think I'd sit in my room twiddling my thumbs and waiting for you to come kill me, armed with nothing but a cheap .22?" Starkweather asked with a berating tone to his voice. "I expected better of you, Cash." His voice lowered and gained that smooth, shamelessly flattering air. "The discrepancy between our voices, for example, could have tipped you off, or you could have wondered why he didn't look like the portraits you saw. If only you hadn't been so enthusiastic while killing 'me', maybe you would have some energy left for the real thing."

"No!" Cash roared, bringing his fist down hard onto the marble floor and wincing in pain and anger. "I'll kill you, you sick fuck! Come here and I'll kill you, I swear to God!"

"I don't doubt that you'd do it if I gave you half a chance, so I won't. You'll never find me where I am, Cash, not as long as you give me a reason to hide."

Cash spoke quickly and raggedly, trying to think. "So I won't. I'll get up and run away. Right now. Nobody will stop me because they're all dead, everyone but you."

Starkweather chuckled, as if he was humoring a child. "And where do you think you'll go?"

The other man opened his mouth, only to find that he didn't have an answer. After a moment of thinking, he replied "Liberty City. I'll use the subway and steal a car, something like that. I'll do it. Try to stop me and I'll do to you what I did to--to him."

"Not in your condition, you won't. You can't even lift that chainsaw, Cash. I guess it was only a matter of time until the painkillers wore off and all the stress got to you, huh?" Starkweather said, as if he was intensely amused by Cash's predicament. "And if you go to sleep here, I can simply walk up and shoot you in the head."

This couldn't be real. Cash swore under his breath as he tried to lay it all out for himself. If he was going to die tonight, it wouldn't even be in a straight battle. No, just like the coward he was, he'd only come out if Cash was defenseless.

"But it doesn't have to be that way, Cash." Starkweather's voice adopted that soothing, persuasive tone he'd used with Cash several times before: when he was convincing him to make his first kill, when he'd made excuses for his family being strung up, and even when justifying their deaths. "You're at my mercy here. I can send you to your death or I can save you from it--again."

Cash shut his eyes tight. He didn't want to be in debt to a psychopath like him, not after everything else he'd done, but right now it was his only chance of surviving. "What..." he said slowly, pausing to lick his dry lips, "what are you talking about?"

"Stay with me, Cash. Don't give me a reason to put a bullet in your brain. I want your talent and you want your life. Once these videos of mine--ours--get on the market, we'll be richer than ever before. You'll make me millions, my boy," he said in a whisper that crackled over the intercom, "and I'll make you a star."

The word hung in the air and Cash gave a deep, shuddering sigh. He was defeated and he knew it. The promise of fame or fortune didn't even register in his brain, just the fact that he would live. "Fine. Do it. Save my life. I don't care."

"That's a good boy," Starkweather chuckled. "Now go to sleep, Cash. When you wake up you'll be in a much more comfortable place than that floor, I promise."

Cash collapsed to the floor in exhaustion, more than happy to do what he ordered.

_**End of Chapter One**_


	2. Devil's Experiment

**Chapter Two: Devil's Experiment**

_Note: I haven't played Manhunt in a long time, so I'm pretty much making things up in terms of the mansion layout. Please suspend your disbelief!_

_Also, the chapter title is taken from the movie "Devil's Experiment" in the Guinea Pig series. (I'm planning on using these titles until I run out of them or they don't become relevant.)_

Cash shifted under something soft and warm as he stirred, mumbling something indistinct under his breath from half-formed dreams. _This isn't so bad_, he thought groggily, pulling the covers up higher over his shoulders. _Maybe all that snuff film stuff was a dream after all. How could all of that have only taken place in one night?_

He spent another minute or two thinking this over, easing himself into waking. His botched execution, the filming, the police, Starkweather's mansion, the director himself could have all been figments of his imagination. But where would that put Cash himself? He couldn't remember the bed of his old apartment being this plush...and definitely not the cots in the prison where he'd spent the eight years after his conviction.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was that the sun was up, glowing around the edges of the thick curtains hanging on the wall. The bed was one of those very expensive circular ones, with dark blue satin sheets, and directly opposite it was a large television, with a ratty-looking tape deck underneath it. The walls were almost completely filled with bookshelves with rows upon rows of video tapes, all of which looked homemade and all of which had identically formatted Sharpied-on labels. There was a closet, too, but it was almost hidden from his angle. Surreptitiously hidden in the corner of the room was an everpresent video camera, and in the middle of the ceiling was, of course, a speaker.

Cash reached down to pull away the covers and realized that his blue jacket and shirt were gone. He looked around self-consciously and lifted up the sheet. His jeans and underwear had been taken away as well. His first instinct was to panic and wonder what kind of things Starkweather would have wanted to do to him in order to take off his clothes, but judging by the bandage around his thigh--and, now that he examined himself, around his palms, chest and other areas he'd been particularly beat up in--he had just patched him up.

What kind of a guy was he, Cash wondered, sinking back against the large, soft pillows. He directs gruesome snuff films, but plays Good Samaritan to his would-have-been murderer? Just when he thought he had him all figured out...

His thoughts were cut short by the crackle over the intercom. "Good morning, Cash. You slept for quite a while...it's already just about noon. How do you feel?"

Cash ran a finger along his thigh. "Better. You did this?" he said tersely, holding up his right hand, bound around the palm with bandages, towards the camera.

"I did." A pause. "Oh, pardon me. I expected a thank you."

Cash snorted and folded his arms over his chest defiantly. "For what? I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for you."

"You're right, you wouldn't be. Your execution would have gone as planned, and you wouldn't be sitting here, enjoying all the comforts of home."

Cash realized that that was true and decided to segue into something else. "That's not true. I'm hungry as hell, for one thing."

"Ah, of course. You haven't eaten since you were in prison, have you? Feel up to walking?" Starkweather asked.

"How far?"

"The kitchen and dining room are right downstairs. While you were out I also took the liberty of doing your laundry--it's hanging up in the closet. Get dressed and come down for breakfast," Starkweather said. Or rather, ordered.

Cash moved his leg experimentally. Although the muscles were still fairly sore from his trek through the city, he felt worlds better. Besides, there was no way he was going to passively sit in this room. Better to go through the mansion and figure out entrances, exits, escape routes, anything he could manage. Maybe he could even get in a decent shot at the elusive director. "Will you be there?" he asked, as much out of genuine curiosity than a plan for escape.

"Yes, I'll be down there. I wanted our first meeting to be considerably more dramatic," Starkweather replied in a jaded tone of voice, "but you've been dramatic on demand for hours on end, so I won't complain. I'll see you in a few minutes." Click.

Cash pushed away the covers and slowly got to his feet, groaning a little. God, he was sore. Even for a guy so muscular who made a habit of working out when he could, eight or ten hours of straight killing and using the city as a jungle gym wore him out bad. He stepped over to the closet and slid the door open: hanging up was his T-shirt, blue jeans and jacket. He got dressed as quickly as he could, chuckling a little at the familiar feel of the clothes. He'd killed a lot of people in these, and just maybe he could do it one more time.

He hadn't gone through the trouble of really memorizing where everything was in Starkweather's mansion the first time around, but the dining room wasn't too far away. Starkweather was sitting down at the long, rectangular table with the city paper held out in front of him. At the sound of Cash's footsteps he folded over a corner with one finger, letting Cash catch the quickest glimpse of him before putting the paper back up.

Cash didn't speak a word as he sat down in the seat to the right of him and took the knife into his hand with a small _clink._ God, he was close enough...tired and hungry though he was, there was no way that he could fail if the director was sitting so close to him, looking as calm and oblivious as anything in the world.

Cash paused and sat up a little in his chair, pulling his hand back as noiselessly as he could. Quick as a whip, Starkweather pulled down the paper, gave a jaded sigh and suddenly Cash was looking down the barrel of a Colt Government semiautomatic handgun, more than enough to kill him dead from three feet away.

"I swear, Cash, you're like a little kid," Starkweather said, rolling his eyes and gesturing with the gun. "Sit down and eat your breakfast or else your brains are going to end up all over the wall, and then where would my leading man be? By the way, that's a butter knife," he remarked, "And you're holding it backwards."

"You shut the fuck up," Cash spat back, sending the knife clattering to the table and grudgingly picking up the fork instead. He immediately set to work on the breakfast, almost inhaling the food from how fast he was eating. He hadn't had anything to eat since his 'last meal,' and even the best the prison had wasn't as good as what the director could cook up. Not that he'd admit it, of course.

He looked up from his plate to see the gun still pointed at his head, although now Starkweather's chin was resting in the palm of his other hand, watching Cash in interest. This was the first time either of them had seen each other in person, and Cash was struck by how oddly _normal _the director seemed. He looked around twenty years older than Cash was, old enough to be his father just about, and his hair was dark brown, with a thick, neatly trimmed beard and mustache that was flecked with the light grey of age. He was portly, but definitely not as pathetic-looking as his decoy had been. He was wearing a dark red silk robe with the initials "L.S." sewn into the left breast, and gave a chuckle as he watched Cash eat. "I'm sure all those murders made you work up quite an appetite."

Cash sat back, pushing the empty plate away a few inches. "All I got to eat for my last meal was a lousy steak and a brew, anyway. I was still starving."

"Well, if you decide to behave yourself, three square meals will be the least of your perks. Let's talk business, shall we?" Starkweather said, folding up the paper and giving the gun a little twirl around his finger.

Cash fixed him with a steely glare. "If this is about that sick snuff shit--"

Starkweather put up a hand to stop him. "Ah ah! Just hear me out. While you were sleeping, I took the liberty of looking over your videos again. You're very good, Cash," he said, assuming that flattering tone again. "_Extremely_ good. As a matter of fact, and I mean it when I say this, you're the best actor I've ever had."

"You drugged me, made me kill a bunch of your psychos and then tried to have me shot up by a freak in a bunny suit," Cash said in a deadpan tone, realizing how ridiculous it all sounded.

"I know!" Starkweather exclaimed, bringing his free hand down on the table in excitement. "And you adapted _brilliantly!_ Not many men would--or could--do what you did, even the most hardened criminals! No sympathy, no weakness, only pure, focused, concentrated brutality. Some of the things you did to those men I would never have thought of in my entire life! Like the crowbar. God, you were good with that crowbar," he said, almost breathless. "Straight through someone's chest. It takes muscle to do that."

"I can't believe this shit," Cash groaned, massaging his temples with one hand. "Listen, I stayed in prison for eight years and almost got killed for what I did, okay? I get a second shot at life, I don't want to spend it just killing worthless fucks for your sick amusement."

Starkweather grinned and leaned over the table. "Cash. Cash, look at me. You...have..._talent,_" he whispered, almost a hiss, and in spite of himself Cash looked up. "When I first went over the prison records, looking for a new star, I found you and I knew I had to have you. I went as far back in your history as I could. Nobody cared about you, nobody was there for you, you were abused and neglected. Even on Death Row your own family didn't come to see you. You weren't loved for anything in your whole life. Fame and fortune--they were beyond even hoping for, weren't they?"

Cash set his jaw and glared at him hard. "Don't you even pretend to know what happened back then."

"But it was true, wasn't it?" Starkweather asked, not backing down. "Living in a run-down rustbucket town like Carcer City wouldn't give you anything, except probably an addiction to meth. But I...I can give you everything you've ever wanted, Cash," he breathed, "anything you can think of. All you have to do is showcase yourself, do what comes naturally, follow my orders and you'll be a movie star. Have you ever wanted to see Paris?"

Cash blinked, giving him a puzzled look. "What?"

"Paris! I've been there to film. I ought to show you the movie sometime," he chuckled. "And Tokyo. I'm a superstar in Japan--after I was kicked out of Hollywood by those shithead producers, it's where I got my start with snuff. I have friends in high places, my boy, and I can literally give you anything in the world. It'll drain my resources for a few weeks as I start recruiting more members for the gangs and the Cerberus," he explained, as if making a note to himself, "but after that, anything goes."

Cash leaned over the table, losing himself to interest. It wasn't so much the material aspect of this he was intrigued about, but the recognition. It was every kid's fantasy to have their name up on a movie poster, but living in a largely abandoned, dirty, end-of-the-line city killed any ideas he might have had about moving out and making a name for himself. He considered it: if he could tear through six gangs plus the police plus Starkweather's personal army in a night and survive, he didn't doubt that he could handle anything the director threw at him. "But you can't keep it going forever," he protested. "How many scenes did we film last night, anyway?"

"A lot. That's not the point. Each of those is their own separate film--you'll be able to sit pretty for a few weeks or months as I release them onto the market and watch the cash roll in. These are extremely lucrative," he said, "and I didn't expect to be able to get more than two or three scenes out of you before you slipped up and got killed."

Cash rolled this idea around in his mind. "What if I say no?"

Starkweather gave a weary little sigh. "Well, why would you? It's not like you've got a life to live out there," he said, gesturing with his free hand. "Anyone who recognizes your face or does a background check will realize that you're a murderer who's supposed to be dead. You won't last a week."

"Still. If I say no, what are you going to do?" Cash asked, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms across his chest.

The director shrugged and gestured with the gun. "Well, I could always shoot you. Be a damn shame, since I went through the trouble of rescuing you from certain death not two days ago."

Cash groaned. "Yeah, well. I got some questions. You're not gonna have me doing shit like twenty scenes in a row like what happened last night, will you?"

"Not from now on, no. After I release these, I'll have you doing, say...two, maybe three scenes a week. Maybe I'll do three or four in a single night and release them as a pack," Starkweather said. "I'm sort of making this up as I go. I've never had anyone last as long as you have, you see. Usually my Cerberus finish off anyone who got that far."

"Why would you want to do that, though?" Cash asked, toying with his fork. "I mean, wouldn't it be a lot easier to keep _one_ guy and just make him turn out scenes like you're talking about doing now instead of making sure each one dies eventually?"

Starkweather gave Cash an incredulous look. "Well, I figured that if I gave a guy who killed off all those gang members any leeway, they'd head right for my mansion and start tearing through my Cerberus. I won't name names, but it rather reminds me of someone else I know," he said pointedly. "so I didn't take chances. But!" he added, "now that we have something worked out, just about...I don't think you'll need to worry. After all," he chuckled, lowering his voice and leaning closer to him, "you _are_ my favorite leading man."

Cash pushed his plate away from him a few inches. "If I hadn't eaten all of it by now, I woulda lost my appetite," he groaned.

Starkweather picked up the plate and went to stick it in the sink, giving a little chuckle. "Oh, don't worry. I'll make sure not to...strain you from now on. For at least the next week or so, you'll be able to do nothing but unwind as I release my videos." Cash yawned, leaning back in the chair and putting his shoes up on the table, as he continued. "You can stay in the guest room for the time being. I only put you up in my room because it was closer and I didn't feel like lugging you the rest of the way," the director grumbled. "Do you keep bricks in your pockets or something?"

"Only when I don't have a chainsaw around," Cash replied sardonically. "Speakin' of which...where did you put--"

"_Away_," the director said testily, pulling out a cigar. "You're not seeing that thing for a while. As a matter of fact, until I get new Cerberus recruits, you're not going to be able to leave the mansion." He lit it and started puffing away, not bothering to elaborate.

Cash groaned and got to his feet, stretching. "Well, what's there to do around here, then?"

"Try to formulate escape plans, if you want," Starkweather chuckled, tapping the ashes off the cigar. "Doubt any of them will work, though. I'm going to shut the building down like a steel trap for the next few days. Besides, I'd like to think that we trust each other enough to assume that neither of us will try to screw the other one over, am I right?"

Cash gave him a hard stare, setting his jaw tight. He suddenly remembered very clearly why he had refused to talk to him throughout almost all of last night, and turned to walk out of the kitchen. He had better things to do than waste his time on the man keeping him prisoner (reminding himself that for all intents and purposes he _was_ being kept prisoner).

He took the opportunity to scout out around the mansion. The gaping hole in the foyer where Piggsy had fallen down the grate had been boarded over, for starters, and the whole place was eerily free of the corpses that had littered the place last night. Either Starkweather had been _really_ busy while he was conked out in his room, or he really did have a lot of friends in high places.

Many of the doors in the mansion were locked and boarded over as well, and most of the windows had iron bars over them. About the only area that wasn't off limits for the time being were the quarters of the Cerberus, complete with a weight training room.

That, he thought, might not be a bad place to spend his time. After all, now it was more important than ever that he keep himself in shape. If he didn't, once they started filming again, Starkweather's gangs could easily get the jump on him...no, he pushed that idea out of his mind. This was important because if he kept himself strong, he could strike when Starkweather least expected it.

Yes, he had to remember that. He could wait and let himself keep the money from the first few movies...if they were as lucrative as the director had said, then that'd be more than enough to get him far, far away from Carcer City once he killed Starkweather. Give the police a tip, let _them_ find the body and the tapes. He'd be a million miles away by the time they showed up.

With a grunt, Cash tested the feel of two heavy barbells in his hands. His muscles were still sore, but he ignored it as he began to do the repetitions. Now he had a plan to focus on, a clear idea that'd let him take back his life.

He was feeling better already.

**End of Chapter Two**


	3. Nobody's Hell Like Mine

**Chapter Three: Nobody's Hell Like Mine**

_Note: This chapter title comes from the Dir en Grey song "Marmalade Chainsaw."_

Weeks passed. Slowly but surely Valiant Video Enterprises seemed to be going back to normal. The tapes were produced and shipped out, and money began to roll back into the mansion. Starkweather went about the process of hiring and training more of the Cerberus and put out underground advertisements for new members of his gangs.

"What kind of a guy would sign up for a job like this?" was Cash's question. "You sit around all night and wait to die. And I bet that everyone in town's heard about all those gangs getting killed by now. I even had to off some of the police, remember?"

"Yeah, well, consider the kind of place this is. This is the end of the line for a lot of people. The bottom of the barrel," Starkweather said, jotting down something onto a clipboard, flipping a few pages back and forth, and making adjustments. "People here know they're just sitting around waiting to die anyway, so why not make a few bucks at it?"

"That's pretty goddamn twisted," Cash grumbled under his breath.

"You expected any less?" Starkweather chuckled, glancing up at him from the clipboard. "I'm tellin' ya, between that and some internet solicitations, I don't think I'll ever run out of hunters. Even though it is a huge setback to have lost so many at once," he said. "Although I guess you should be taking that as a compliment."

Cash rolled his eyes. "Thanks. Should I be worried that you're gonna pick guys who aren't pushovers this time?"

"We'll see. I still have to screen them first." At Cash's skeptical look, he elaborated. "I can't have any psychos in the hunt who aren't gonna listen to what I tell them, you know. Besides," he chuckled, "a director's gotta be careful in choosing his actors, doesn't he?"

Cash leaned back against the sofa, feeling troubled. "Carefully chosen...just how long were you watching me in prison, anyway?"

"Long enough," Starkweather replied. "You were quiet, menacing, didn't take any shit from anyone...my watching you was your screening process. I knew right then and there that I'd made an _excellent _choice." Cash gave out a groan and Starkweather began to dig in a briefcase on the desk. "If you're going to get into a bad mood whenever I give you compliments, maybe I should just shut up and give you your money instead," he said, pulling out a wad of bills with a rubber band around it. "Your first payday. Catch."

Cash caught the wad in his hands and pulled off the rubber band. "Jesus, there's gotta be more than eight hundred bucks here," he said, thumbing through the bills. "How many of those videos are on the market now?"

"Only the first few. I keep telling you, these sell extremely well," Starkweather explained. "They charge sky-high for porn, imagine what kind of a black market price snuff can get. The guys who get off on this stuff, it's like solid gold to 'em."

Cash considered this. There was definitely more where this came from, and he couldn't start to imagine how much money some of the later films would sell for. "So when do you think we'll have to start filming again?"

"Well, if everything goes as smoothly as I'm hoping it will, I'll have enough recruits within the month," Starkweather said, still looking down at his work. "But don't you rest on your laurels, pal, I don't want you getting killed on your first night back out."

"I don't think that's gonna be a problem." Cash chuckled to himself, replacing the band around the bills. "I found that weight training set downstairs," he added, noting the interested look Starkweather gave him.

The director turned back around, waving dismissively. "Oh, I know that. You've been doing a good job on that, I've been reviewing the tapes."

"...the tapes?" Cash repeated, blinking. "You mean...just how many rooms do you have bugged, anyway?"

"All of them." Starkweather chuckled, giving Cash a sidelong glance. "You expected anything less?"

"Even..."

"Whatever you're thinking of, the answer is yes." Starkweather grinned in a very disturbing manner.

There was a knock at the door, and Cash inwardly thanked whomever was there for saving him from such a weird conversation. "Mr. Starkweather, sir, the first few hunters are outside," said a low voice. Cash recognized it as the new captain of the Cerberus. "You want to come down and interview them?"

"I'll be down in a minute. Hey," Starkweather said, glancing to Cash, "you want to come down and see the fresh meat?"

"Huh. You think that'd be a good idea?"

"Well, unless you want to sit around being bored..."

---

Three minutes later, Starkweather and Cash were outside the mansion (Cash, for the first time since the night he arrived), surveying the line of men that'd applied for the hunt. To be completely honest, they didn't look like much, for better or worse. They were all average joes, some a little more muscular than others, but Cash didn't get the feeling they would amount to anything. They just looked like...cannon fodder, really. Not something to hold an audience's attention, like the Innocentz or Smileyz had.

He looked over to Starkweather, trying to see what he thought from his expression. The director looked pretty peeved about the whole thing, and Cash suspected that it was because Starkweather knew that, strapped for hunters as he was, he was in no position to turn any of these guys away.

"So," Starkweather said, a grudging tone in his voice, "I'm to assume that this is all your first time in snuff, right?" Nods all around. "Any of you guys ever gone to prison?" A number of them raised their hands or nodded again, which seemed to give him some relief. "Good, good," he murmured, and jabbed a finger at one of the men in particular. "You. What'd you do?"

"Five years. Killed a coupla guys while robbin' a store," he grunted, cleaning out his ear with a finger.

"Not bad. Anyone else?"

They went down the line, listening to each one's "qualifications." There was a number of break-and-enters, barfighting, assault and battery charges, and even one or two more murders. (And one litterer, who was told to "get the fuck out of here.")

After all of that, Starkweather put his hands behind his back and said decisively: "I'm not going to lie to you sorry sons of bitches--you're getting in easy this time because I'm low on hunters at the moment. So, you're all accepted. Filming starts sometime this week or next," he said, nodding over to the Cerberus. "Get in the van and the Cerberus will take you to the Hood turf. Spend your time training and getting familiar with the area. You're going to need all the help you can get," he chuckled. Several of the members looked a little disturbed by this, but didn't say anything as they lumbered off to the Cerberus vans.

After they were gone, Cash turned to his director skeptically. "That's your screening?"

Starkweather let out a grumble. "What a bunch of morons. Thoroughly uninteresting," he complained. "But I guess I don't have much choice in the matter. I really would like to get another guy with Ramirez's caliber, though, or maybe even another total psycho like Piggsy. Someone hard-hitting, with style. Having just a cast full of grunts with one guy killing them off is good, but it's not quite as compelling..."

Cash secretly hoped that nobody would turn up who fit the description. Ramirez had been a pain in the ass by himself, and Piggsy was an abomination besides. "Yeah, well, it's only the first day," he said. "We've still got another week to go, maybe someone'll come by." _Not that I'll be around to go up against him_, he thought to himself.

"Hope so. Hard to make a living when you don't have a decent cast," Starkweather grumbled to himself in discontentment. Cash wasn't sure if he was trying to make him feel a little guilty for that; if he was, then it didn't work. "Well, whatever. So what do you think?"

"About what?"

"About _them._"

"Me? Well, they're okay, I guess," Cash said, shrugging. "They're fodder."

Starkweather gave him an interested look. "Funny, you don't seem disturbed by the fact that you've met the men you're going to be killing."

"Well, I wasn't disturbed by any of the other ones," Cash mused. "I know they're guys like me and everything, I could hear them talking when they were looking for me, but it just...I dunno. It seems like it's just business, that's all. I can't really change it, so why should I care?"

"And you're not worried by that either?"

Cash thought for a second, then slowly shook his head. "No. I sort of feel like I oughta be, but..." he suddenly broke out into a grin. "I guess I should be happy that I'm not, right? What kind of a snuff star would I be if I started feeling bad for those morons?"

Starkweather let out a laugh as he returned inside the mansion, followed by Cash. "Good point. You might be the most perfect actor I've ever had," he chuckled. "Well, actually, I'll wait to say that until we actually start filming again. Next week," he said. "Tuesday, that's what I'm aiming for."

Tuesday. That gave Cash about seven days to plan how to skip out of town. With Valiant Video buzzing again, he was going to have to keep busy and keep secret.

"Yeah, sure," Cash said. "Sounds good to me."

--

The days ticked by, one by one, and Cash alternated between being wrapped up in the cogs and gears of filming and his own private plans. He watched the video feeds in Starkweather's room and noted which ones would get in the way of his escape attempt, he began training even harder than before, and he tried as hard as he could to put off Starkweather's planned "rehearsal" that was to take place Sunday or Monday night. That last one didn't matter too much in the grand scheme of things, but even the idea of getting back into killing people the way he had been unsettled him--not that he would admit it, of course.

His luck ran out on Monday night. "We can't jump back into filming without a test run first!" Starkweather insisted, blocking Cash's body with his own stubbornly as his leading man tried to walk out the editing room door. "No way I'm sending you out there unprepared. We can make it brief, but for God's sake, I want to make sure you know what you're doing out there."

"Hey, remember who came this close to cutting you up with a chainsaw," Cash snapped, almost lunging at the director, who backed away a step. "I think I know what I'm doing by now!"

"Believe me, I could never forget," Starkweather grumbled, turning away from him. "But still, I want to make sure this goes off without a hitch, okay? Like I said, I don't want you getting killed on your first night back out. What, are you starting to feel suicidal?" he asked sardonically.

"No, I just...fine," Cash grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. "Let's just get this over with so I can get some sleep."

"That's my boy," Starkweather exclaimed, clapping him on the back heartily. Cash gave him an irritated look and he brought his hand away, chuckling. "Well, don't you worry. Now that I've gotten a few more members of the gang, I can spare a few to get you back into your prime. The Cerberus are all ready to take you, so I'll see you in a few hours."

"The Cerberus? You know I don't like them."

"I told them not to club you over the head this time. They'll be nice to you, as long as you're nice to them." The words were benign, but Starkweather put an edge in his voice that made it sound as if he knew that the thought of knocking them out and stealing the car was already crossing Cash's mind. "Capice?"

"Yeah, okay. I'll just get going," Cash groaned, unable to shake the unsettling feeling that Starkweather knew what was going on inside his head. "Anything I should bring?"

"Mmm...not weapon-wise. I've hidden some of your favorite toys in the Hood turf, just for you," Starkweather snickered. "Oh, wait...there is one thing. Funny how I almost forgot it."

He drew a headset out from a pocket and pressed it into Cash's hand. The other man tensed up, feeling revulsion well up inside him for a moment, seeing that thing that he'd discarded so long ago come back to him. It was even the very same one...there were scratch marks on it from when he'd thrown it at the asphalt and ran away. He could have just gotten a new one, but...

"It's a good headset," Starkweather explained, in a voice that was oddly subdued. "Took a while to repair, but I wasn't about to let it go to waste."

"Yeah," was all Cash could say as he curled his fingers around it and pulled it away. As he fixed it on his head, that feeling of being repulsed by it evaporated. Now he'd already gotten used to it again. It felt natural there, like he'd worn it for years instead of just one night.

"See? Not so bad. Now get going, I'll see you in a few," Starkweather replied, punctuating it with a slap landing squarely on Cash's ass. The other man let out a growl and glared at him over his shoulder as he walked out.

Ten minutes later, Cash was setting foot outside the estate gates for the first time in a month. He sat in the back of one of the Cerberus' armored cars, surrounded by the dark and silent sentinels. They seemed to regard Cash with a mixture of fear and indifference, as if he were a caged tiger and they were his keepers. They tapped their fingers on their rifles subtly but, for the most part, ignored him.

"Here it is." The Cerberus pulled up to an alley and opened up the door to the armored car. "Better get going, we don't have all night."

"Yeah, I know, I know," Cash replied as he stood and stretched a little, cracking his neck and knuckles, before jumping out of the car and pressing close to the brick wall. The alley was cast in shadow from the one flickering streetlight in the lot, but beyond it he could see a pantyhose-clad Hood patrolling back and forth, back and forth, looking bored.

The headset crackled with static as Starkweather's voice came to life in his ear. "Welcome back, Cash! Ah, it's been too long since we've worked together. We really have to do this more often."

Cash didn't reply, choosing instead to run his eyes over the alley, checking for anything he could use as a weapon. "Still adopting the silent treatment, huh?" Starkweather chuckled. "Good idea, you don't want them hearing you. Mmm, you're sharp as always, my boy. If you're looking for a weapon, you might want to check inside that trash can right over there. But be quiet about it..."

Damn it, Cash thought, that was just like him, putting something he needed in a place where it'd be most inconvenient. He carefully stepped over to the trashcan and, as quietly as he could manage, he lifted the lid off and rummaged through it. There was a broken glass bottle lying on top of full plastic bags. That would do.

Trashcan lid in one hand and a bottle in the other, Cash snuck up to the entrance of the alley, while still remaining in the shadows. He noticed that he was the only one in this part of the vacant lot, so he should have no problem taking him out without alerting the others in the other parts of the turf. Directly across from the alley were a few dormant trucks casting more heavy shadows--those would do for a body dumping ground.

The Hood passed by Cash again, his back to him. With a quick movement, Cash flung the trashcan lid like a frisbee, sending it clattering against the side of the second truck. The Hood jumped at the noise and ran over to the truck, peering into the shadowed area. "I got ya now, moron!" he yelled, unsure if anyone was there at all, but approaching cautiously.

Cash snuck up behind him, bottle raised. "That's it," Starkweather whispered as Cash drew closer and closer to the unsuspecting hunter, "that's it, slowly, slowly... _now!_"

Cash's body moved on its own. There was no room for thought, only the movement of his muscles as he wrapped his left arm under the chin of the Hood, pulling his head up as he sank the jagged ends of the broken bottle into his neck.

From the corner of his eye he saw the tiny red light of Starkweather's mounted camera on the building near the alley where he had just come from. The Hood's terrified screams were nothing more than incoherent gurgles as Cash swiveled his body towards it, drawing the bottle over his throat in a quick movement. The blood flew out in a brilliant red arc, spraying onto the Hood's wifebeater and onto the concrete ground. He was dead in less than ten seconds.

"Beautiful, Cash!" Starkweather almost shouted. "Gorgeous! Quick, stylish, _and _you played it to the camera! You are _back,_ my boy!"

He tried as hard as he could to suppress a grin, but failed. Maybe he was becoming just as bad as the director, but being able to do this again actually felt _good_. He could stretch his legs out here, he could feel that rush of adrenaline, and--to be honest, Starkweather's words might have been the first genuine praise he'd heard in his life.

Cash heaved the body of the hunter over his shoulder and dumped his body between the two trucks, with the director chattering away all the while. "That's one down. There's two more in the next area, over by the shipping warehouse." Cash turned his head to see that they were standing guard outside the closed door. One of them, he noted, had a crowbar. "Take care of them and head inside the warehouse."

Hmm, this was going to be somewhat tricky. Cash didn't have any more weapons on him, and he didn't want to get into a fist-fight and have that crowbar end up in his skull. Carefully he rapped his knuckles against the metal of the truck. The sound wasn't very loud, but it carried over to the warehouse.

The crowbar-carrying Hood looked up, suddenly alert. "Hey, did you hear that?" he said to the other one, who just shrugged. "That sound? Maybe it was him."

"You think so? Mighta been just a stray dog or somethin'."

"Yeah, maybe."

Cash rolled his eyes. "Those morons," Starkweather groaned. "Sorry about that. Next time I'll do more quality control when I pick the hunters. Try it again." He banged a bit harder on the truck this time, making both of the hunters jump.

"Hey, you'd better go check that out," the one with the crowbar said, rattled. "I'm pretty sure that ain't no dog."

"Why me? You're the one with the crowbar! I just got a bag," the other one complained, patting his back pocket. Reluctantly the other Hood descended the steps of the warehouse and moved towards the trucks, crowbar in hand, looking extremely wary. "Hey!" he called out, looking around. "Come on out, you pussy, I know you're here!"

Cash moved back a couple steps and tapped again, softer this time. The Hood took a few cautious steps forward into the shadows, but without coming close enough to see Cash's motionless form. After a moment, the hunter turned around with a shrug. "Nah, I think it really was just--"

He was cut off by Cash's grabbing his neck with one hand and his chin with the other. With a quick jerk and a sickening snap the Hood slumped to the ground. Cash piled his body up on top of the other and grabbed the crowbar out of his hand. "Good, good," Starkweather murmured. "Gimme some real gore with this next one, though, will ya?"

The other guard over by the door looked visibly shaken. "H-hey, man, everything okay over there?" After a few seconds went by without a response, he began to walk over, paused, and, just in case, took out his plastic bag. Cash had to work to keep from laughing. "Did ya get him?"

Cash looked back and forth. No, no other guards around, so he figured he may as well give Starkweather what he wanted. He braced himself, raised the weapon high and dashed out of the shadows into the open. The Hood's eyes widened and he could barely get out a "what the hell" before the curved end of the crowbar dug into his throat, spattering blood and muscle onto the ground. Starkweather let out a gasp in Cash's ear, a barely audible "god, yes" that sent shivers through his leading man's body.

The hunter stumbled, confused and letting out a scream that was nothing but air, and Cash lunged again, hooking the crowbar into his skull. His victim's eyes rolled back into his head and his jaw went slack as he fell forward, blood pooling around his body.

"That's what I want to see, my boy..." Starkweather breathed as Cash knelt down to work the crowbar free. "Pure ruthlessness! You're even better now than you were before, you know that? Leave him there, get into the warehouse," he said quickly. "There's more hunters inside. God, I can't wait to see what you do with them..."

He wasn't kidding. There were hunters patrolling all over the twisting maze of shadows and crates inside; Starkweather wanted "executions in quick succession," as he put it. One right after the other. Silently, Cash would watch as each one passed by his hiding spot, stalk them, kill them with the crowbar and hide their bodies behind the crates. When he got started, it became the easiest thing in the world. Bam, bam, bam, each one added to his tally. After a while, he stopped thinking about it. His body became a machine.

The last one was the toughest, though. Cash grabbed him around the neck, but before he could thrust his crowbar into his chest, the Hood twisted him off and shoved him away. "You gonna let him push you around like that?" Starkweather said, feeding the anger that was starting to boil inside his leading man. "Show him what you can do!"

Cash grabbed an empty wooden crate off the ground as the Hood approached and lunged at him, smashing it into his face with a roar. The wood splintered, blinding the hunter, and he stumbled back in pain. "That's it, my boy!" the director exclaimed feverishly. "Do it, kill him! Don't stop now!"

Cash grabbed the Hood and pulled him up, smacking him hard across the face with the crowbar. It wasn't a stylish, quick execution like the others; no, now he was just hitting him, tearing him up, almost senseless with rage. The world was a blur around him, and the only things that mattered were that metal in his hand, the prey that flailed on the ground and that voice in his ear, the voice that was crying out his name, calling him a star.

He wasn't sure how long he had been there when the world began to sway and come back, slowly, into focus. The Hood was eviscerated, faceless, looking more like a hunk of torn-up meat than any human. Cash stood up unsteadily and leaned back against the metal shelving, panting heavily.

Starkweather was breathing almost as hard as he was. "Cash..." was all he could manage in a wavering voice. "That's enough. We're done."

"That was insane," Cash groaned, pressing a hand to his head. A headache was starting to pulse dully in his temples.

"The Cerberus are outside. Head out the exit...it's right near you. Come back to the mansion." Starkweather let out a long sigh. "If that's how you do on a trial run, I can't wait to see what it's like tomorrow night."

---

Shaken and slightly shaking, Cash returned to the mansion, escorted by the Cerberus. They seemed to notice the change in him, which put him on edge even more, but they didn't mention it. One of the guards informed Cash that Starkweather was already asleep. That made things a little easier.

The guards dispersed back to their posts, leaving Cash alone and wondering what to do now. The filming hadn't taken all that long, only about one or two hours. It was still dark outside, and somewhere in this whole mess, hadn't he devised a plan for escaping?

First things first: he took some painkillers. It helped to clear some of the haze away from his mind, and he pocketed the bottle for further use. If he was going to get the hell out of here, he should do it tonight. He still had all the money that Starkweather'd given him (assuring his star that he could use it eventually), and with that, he should be able to get far, far away. The Cerberus changed shifts at three o'clock sharp; it was 2:57 right now. That would give him a five-minute gap to make his escape...

Did Starkweather have an alarm system? He doubted it; the Cerberus were better than any alarm. If they saw Cash escape, then he'd be knocked out or killed, no doubt about it. But he'd taken them down before and, if needed, he could probably do it again.

There. 3:00 precisely. The dull tone of the clocks roused the sleepier guards, and they ambled off to the quarters downstairs. Quickly and quietly, Cash slipped out the door and dashed off towards the gate at the far end of the mansion courtyard.

He clung to the gate and looked over his shoulder, out of breath and panting. Nobody was coming after him. Probably, nobody even knew he was there. He was home free...almost.

The only thing separating him and the rest of the city was the gate in front of him, locked up tight with a chain and padlock. He reached out to touch the bars and run his fingers over the padlock. He couldn't quite tell how much room between the bars there was; he might be able to slip through. Or else he could bust the lock open with his crowbar...

But as he stood there, he had the peculiar feeling that he was touching the very edges of his world. He was reminded of what Starkweather had said on that first horrific night: he really had nowhere to go after this. There was always the chance of an observant bystander or an honest cop, and in that one moment, bam, to the electric chair for him. And what kind of a job could he get where nobody would mind that he was a serial killer?

What kind of a job would even pay as well as the one he had now? The cash in his pockets weighed him down uncomfortably, as if reminding him exactly what he was going to turn away from. It was useless to pretend that he didn't enjoy having money for once in his life, or that he didn't feel some satisfaction, in a sick and twisted way, being regarded as a movie star.

And, although it was the last thing he wanted to admit to himself, he was even enjoying the filming just for the filming. He couldn't deny that he'd felt more alive tonight than he ever had before. He loved the adrenaline rush, the urgency of kill or be killed. Hell, he could even toy around with the hunters, take them down any way he wanted. It was fun.

He was going to be rich and famous, doing something that he enjoyed. So what if it meant he had to knock off some deadbeat morons a couple of times a week? So what if it meant that he was becoming like Starkweather?

_I can't believe I'm actually asking myself this,_ he thought, groaning inwardly. _So what? I could **die.** _It couldn't go on forever, he knew that. By all rights he should have been killed more than once by now, and all that borrowed time was going to have to catch up with him one day. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the week after, maybe five years from now...

That seemed to do it. Cash reached down to his belt and pulled out the crowbar, hooking it into the padlock. He took a breath.

_On this side of the gate or that one, I'm a dead man._

He hesitated. Through the bars, Carcer City stretched out before him, immense and dark and silent.

_But here, I can at least feel like I'm living._

With a small, conceding sigh, he lifted the crowbar out of the padlock and slowly walked back to the mansion. He'd lost a lot of sleep that night, and he needed to make up for it before tomorrow.

**End of Chapter Three**


	4. Poison

**Chapter Four: Poison**

"Just like that, Cash, just like that," Starkweather said, almost pleading. "Rip him up for me!" Cash dug the knife into the Skin and drew it down, slicing him open from his collarbone to his stomach before kicking him over onto the pile of corpses that used to be his buddies.

Cash wiped the sweat off his brow and dusted his hands off on his jeans. "And that's a wrap!" the director said. "Verrry nice work tonight, my boy, very nice indeed. Come on back to the mansion...I have good news for you."

When Cash got back to the mansion, Starkweather was in his filming room, the one with the rows of monitors that were hooked up to the camera feeds across Carcer City. He was sitting in his director's chair, head tilted back, eyes closed, with a blissful expression on his face. "You were excellent tonight," he said as Cash entered the room. "Really good."

"You sure look like you enjoyed yourself," Cash replied, folding his arms over his chest. "So what was the good news?"

"Mm." Starkweather picked up an envelope on the soundboard and held it out at arm's length. "Read this while I enjoy my afterglow."

It was already open, so Cash just took the card out and skimmed it. _Good to hear you're not dead. Come to the screening on the 20th. Bring that leading man of yours, we all want to see him. (There'll be wine._) "What the hell is this?"

Starkweather made a "turn it over" gesture with a finger. Cash flipped it over and saw a neatly printed address on the back. It was somewhere in Holyvale, which was known as the "rich part" of Carcer City...well, more like the "less poor" part. "Okay, so...I still don't know what it is."

"Snuff Producers' Guild annual screening," Starkweather replied, eyes still closed. "It's being held in Carcer City this year, all the big guns are going to be there. Directors and executives and such, not just producers. Feel like coming?"

"There's a Snuff Producers' Association?"

"Guild," Starkweather corrected. "And yes, there is. It's a big business, you know. Valiant Videos is the tip of the iceberg."

Cash tossed the card and envelope back onto the soundboard. "Damn, didn't know _that_ at all. So you're not the only sick perv who likes watching people get cut up?"

"Of course not! If I were, then I wouldn't be making any money from these videos," Starkweather said, glaring at him. "Although," he chuckled, "watching you go to work on those chumps is a reward in and of itself."

"That's sweet," Cash said sardonically. "So what's gonna happen there, anyway?"

"I show you off to the other directors, and they pretend not to be incredibly jealous of me. Oh, and we watch movies. And there's alcohol and sometimes cake."

"I'll think about it," Cash said, turning to leave the room.

Starkweather's raised voice arrested him in the doorway. "You know, Cash..." he said, and paused. "There's worse situations than making money doing something you like."

That was the last thing he needed to hear. "I don't like this," he said, but to his irritation, he could hear the weakness in his own voice. Doubtlessly, Starkweather could too.

"You could have fooled me." Cash looked over his shoulder and saw the director looking back, chin in the palm of his hand, with a puzzled but curious look. "You're great at your job and I know you like the money. So what's making you act so sour?"

"You really have to ask?" Cash replied, glaring at him. "What makes you think I like this? I'm not a killer. Well...I am, but not..."

Starkweather let out a long, melodramatic sigh. "But you tell yourself you don't _like_ killing, so you're not _quite_ as bad as me yet, right? Come on, Cash. If you really were so concerned about turning into a psycho like me, then why didn't you just leave the other night?"

Cash didn't say anything for a moment. It'd been over a week since the escape attempt...he thought that Starkweather just hadn't reviewed the footage of that night, or that he'd missed it, or something equally ridiculous. But here he was, bringing it up now, of all times. "I...well, I'm safer here," he said uncomfortably, refusing to leave as long as he didn't get the last word in.

"If I believed that that was all you're concerned about, then I'd believe anything, Cash," Starkweather sighed, shaking his head. "Did you forget the reason why you ended up in jail in the first place?"

Cash's hand tightened on the knob. Of course he hadn't.

"You couldn't have changed it, Cash. They didn't put you in prison by mistake at all, did they?"

"That's nothing like this," Cash said in a low voice. "I'm not sick like you."

There was a creaking behind him, and then the sound of footsteps. As Cash bowed his head down, he felt Starkweather's hand close over his.

"What's wrong with being sick?" he murmured in his ear. "Sickness sells, Cash. You can't help being an excellent killer, so take advantage of your talent. After all, what landed you in prison's made you rich and famous now, and what's there to resent about that?" Cash's hand was unresisting as Starkweather slipped it off the doorknob. "Come to the screening with me next week."

"Yeah," Cash said slowly. "Yeah, okay. I may as well." He gave Starkweather a stern look. "Anyone gonna try to kill me?"

"Of course not," Starkweather chuckled. "Maybe pick a fight, but believe me when I say that nobody there will stand a chance against you. You might need a change of clothes, though," he said, picking at a small hole in the sleeve of Cash's jacket. "This thing's getting ratty."

"I like it," Cash protested, brushing his hand away. "It's my--what do you call it, stage costume."

"It may as well be your only costume! I never see you wearing anything else. Fine, fine, you can keep it for the screening," Starkweather said lightly. "But I'm at least going to get it touched up."

So that was that. Starkweather began compiling a _Lionel Starkweather Presents: The Best of James Earl Cash_ release for the occasion, complete with a deleted scenes section (some of the choicest bits had to have been cut for time) and commentary. Cash, meanwhile, busied himself with doing what he did best--namely, training and killing. The gangs were slowly starting to get tougher and smarter than they were before...though at this point that wasn't saying much.

Eventually the 20th rolled around, and Cash found himself about to head out beyond the mansion for the first time. He was wearing a heavy coat over his normal outfit, now that winter was settling in and the air was getting that cold snap to it. "But we're not gonna walk all the way there, right?" he asked, feeling a bit dumb for it. "Are we gonna take the armored car?"

"Normally I would, but not tonight!" Starkweather threw open the door to the garage and there, surrounded by the rusty, dusty equipment hanging off of the walls (some of the garden-variety implements were caked with blood, he noticed), was a slightly worn-looking Stallion painted an obnoxiously bright shade of yellow. Cash recognized it as the same car that he'd seen in one of the framed photographs around the mansion. "We're taking my own personal car. Haven't used it in forever."

"We should probably just take the other one," Cash said, following behind Starkweather anyway. "What if this thing breaks down?"

"It's not gonna break down," Starkweather insisted, punctuating it with a flippant wave of his hand. "I've been tuning it up for the past week. Well, making the Cerberus tune it up. I keep them around for more than just guarding and playing cards, you know."

The plush leather interior was certainly nothing to sneeze at, but what really astonished Cash was how the thing actually ran like a dream. "It ought to," Starkweather replied when he brought it up. "I certainly paid enough for it...twenty years ago."

"Twenty years!" Cash exclaimed. "Damn...wish I could have one like this." How much easier would his life had been if he'd had the money to afford to buy cars and forget about them, huh? Too bad. Like he could ever have made it big in the first place, he thought, tuning out the world around him as he daydreamed. This was really the best he could have ever hoped for.

"No, you definitely need something less bright," Starkweather was saying when Cash forced himself back to his senses. "A dark blue, maybe. Probably not a black."

"Really?" Cash said, disinterested.

"Too slick. You're not that cultured," Starkweather said, grinning at him. "Ah, here we are. I'm pretty sure this is the place," he said, pulling into an empty space on the side of the road, in front of a dilapidated-looking building. "Holyvale Conference Center--this is where they always hold it."

To be honest, Cash had no idea what to expect when he stepped inside. It was true that nothing could creep him out by this point, but when he stepped in and realized that the room was almost entirely men in tuxedos, he was a bit taken aback. Aside from the surprising idea of people in the business of murder porn looking so damn _sharp,_ it seemed nefarious, like putting makeup on a festering wound. The whole business was still corrupt and disgusting, and putting a facade on it just made it worse.

_Jesus,_ Cash thought, looking around him. _This place is full of sharks_. He felt like he was in more danger here than he had ever been in the back alleys and junkyards of downtown Carcer.

"Lionel!" one of the other personnel exclaimed, striding forward to meet the two at the door. "How about that? Looking as hale and...hearty as ever, I see," he said with a greasy sort of smile. It made Cash draw back in distaste just seeing it. The man looked up over his shoulder, calling out to a group of men clustered over by the drinks. "I told you he was alive! Now come on," he added to Starkweather, "you know we all want to see that star of yours..."

"That star of yours," "that new leading man of yours..." didn't any of these self-absorbed morons know that he had a fucking name? He tried to just ignore them, sticking close to Starkweather and trying to look as disinterested as possible. Maybe it'd be relatively painless that way.

"So, the rumors of my death," Starkweather began, "have been greatly exaggerated. Apparently some of you thought I was a goner, was that right?"

"Well...from what we heard, Cash certainly did a number on your body double," one of the other executives, a short and weasely-looking man, sniffed. "If you didn't have the foresight to hire one, you'd be dead as a doornail, I just know it."

"Yes, well, when you've been in the business as long as I have, you get smart about these things..."

"Oh, come off it, Starkweather. You know what we really want to hear about," one of the other men said, cutting him off. Starkweather looked as if he'd been slapped in the face. "So this is your rising star?" he purred, pushing closer to Cash, who stepped away. "Oh, come on, don't be shy..."

"He's done rising," Starkweather said coldly, strategically blocking his advance. "All he's got to do now is stay on top. And believe me, he isn't shy...for the cameras, at least." At Starkweather's words, the others backed down a little and a wave of relief washed over his leading man. "Come on, Cash," he said under his breath. "Let's get a bit of room here, shall we?"

"Good idea." They were the first words to come out of his mouth since he'd walked into the room, and he followed close to his director as they broke off from the rest of the crowd. He took the time now to survey things more thoroughly; it wasn't all the executive types, he noticed. There were a fair amount of "plus ones" hanging around, who seemed analogous to Cash. "Who are those guys?" he asked, leaning down to whisper.

"The guys who aren't in suits?" Starkweather said, getting himself a plate of food and helping himself to generous amounts of caviar and crackers. "They're their directors' right hands."

"Like me, huh?"

"Nah. More like Ramirez was." Cash just about bristled at the mention. "See, they don't go about this the way I do now--so their stars are the gangs, not the chump they're hunting down. You're the only, uh, 'prey' here, so to speak."

"I knew _that_ already," Cash grumbled, looking back over his shoulder. Several other pairs of eyes shifted back as people began to suddenly occupy themselves again. "You sure no one's gonna try to off me?"

Starkweather leaned in and nudged him with his elbow. "Take a look around," he whispered. "Any of those guys look like they could hold a candle to you? Besides, you have your trusty crowbar with you, don't you?" He did have a point; most of the other guys looked like they relied more on gimmicky weapons than doing the smart thing and actually working with their body. If they weren't too lanky, then they were pretty damn fat (a trend he noticed in the directors, too).

"For example, take that snake over there. That's Gacy," Starkweather groaned under his breath, shooting a glare at a brittle-looking figure not too far away. "He runs the Carcer City museums."

"He into snuff too?" Cash whispered, watching him. He was a thin, mousy man, with a sour expression and beady eyes that focused on one thing at a time so intently that it looked as if he were trying to burn holes in it. Dressed in a neat, dark suit he looked almost like an undertaker, and Cash noted that he was Starkweather's exact opposite. "Doesn't look like the type."

"Oh, he is," the director replied. "But he's more of the, you know, sterile vivisection type." Starkweather shook his head, chuckling darkly. "So he hasn't got much of a presence in the Manhunts. He's only got one gang, the Clownz," he said, nodding to a heavyset man clad in black leather standing a little behind Gacy, with thick greasepaint on his face in a leering parody of a clown. "Similar to the Smileys, except they're posers. But it's best not to let them know that."

"Pushovers," Cash added. Then, noticing that Starkweather was wandering off--"where are you going?"

"They've got alcohol in the back, I'm getting something to drink. I'll get you some wine."

"Hey--" Cash protested, watching Starkweather walk off. He groaned inwardly, rolling his eyes and folding his arms over his chest. He would have given him more trouble for that if it wouldn't have made him look like he couldn't take care of himself.

"He's always been like that." A thin, breathy voice slithered into Cash's earshot and he turned around to see Gacy walk over with slow, deliberate movements. The Clown behind him followed, though he was more concerned with chomping on his cake than paying attention. "So difficult to deal with."

"Yeah. Gacy, right?"

"Yes, James Gacy. And you're James Earl Cash," Gacy said, leaning over a bit to examine the much taller man. "Mmm. Just as soft-spoken in person as on tape, I see."

"I'm not much for theatrics," Cash said tersely as he glanced to the Clown a few feet away, who snorted out a laugh and stuffed another piece of cake into his mouth.

"Just as well," Gacy said, starting to circle around him. Cash cautiously laid a hand on the crowbar at his side--just in case. "Substance over style, I see. Starkweather can't shut up about you," he said, his voice laced with withering disapproval. "He calls you 'this year's young hot star.'"

"Bet it's not the only thing 'e calls 'im," the Clown mumbled under his breath. Gacy shot him an irritated look, and the fat man gave a chuckle and went back to eating his food.

"Yeah, I've heard that one before," Cash replied, shrugging. "I don't care too much about it."

Gacy smiled a thin, cold smile. "Well, perhaps you should," he said. "Your life depends on your performance, after all."

"Yeah, well, after what I did that first night, I can't imagine anything else being much of a problem."

Gacy chuckled, lacing his hands together modestly. "Oh, don't be so sure. You know how..._cutthroat_ the film business can be, yes? Just multiply that by ten and take away all the fake blood, and you have snuff."

"Starkweather and I already got all the business stuff done," Cash said, putting a bluntness in his voice as he fixed Gacy with a hard stare. "He wants a steady leading man's what he told me."

"Oh, of course I would never doubt the good director's word," Gacy replied sardonically, "but just make sure you keep on your toes. After all...if he gets bored with you, you know what'll happen." Chuckle.

"You're crazy," Cash spat. "He tried that once, it didn't work. He wouldn't do it again now."

Gacy laughed, clapping his bony hands. "I admire your optimism, my friend, but Starkweather is notorious for that sort of thing. Of course, he adores you," he said, raising a hand so Cash couldn't interject, "but all I'm saying is to be careful. After all," he said icily, dropping the volume of his voice, "just imagine how many copies 'The Last Stand of James Earl Cash' would sell."

Cash could do nothing except watch as Gacy turned around and walked away without another word, followed by his flunky. He felt as if ice water were creeping through his veins, slowly filling him with a sense of dread. It suddenly gave him a sense of scale, too: maybe he wasn't the first actor Starkweather had culled from Death Row. Maybe he wasn't the only one to have been betrayed and targeted by the director, either...

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. "You son of a bitch!" shouted an unfamiliar voice. "You know what happened to the last person who said that?"

"Like I give a damn!" Now that was Starkweather. "That 'last person' wasn't Cash! If it were, your ripped-up corpse would be hanging in my bedroom, you ignorant fuck! You think any--any third-rate moron with a fake sword and a fancy costume can take down the goddamn star of Valiant Videos?"

_What the hell?_ Cash pushed his way through the massing crowd. He felt his arm gripped by Starkweather's hands as he was pulled through. Starkweather and another director--some big, pretty beefy-looking guy--were absolutely livid, and someone's wine glass looked like it'd been smashed against the wall. "What the fuck's going on here?"

"This asshole was trying to make people think that you were some sort of pussy," Starkweather hissed, gripping his actor's arm almost painfully. "Said you couldn't take down even a couple of the Lost."

"The Lost?" Cash repeated, then wrenched his arm away. "Listen, you told me that nobody--"

"The Lost," the other director interrupted, straightening his suit, "are my junkyard gang. Surprised you haven't heard of them," he said with a sneer, "considering the trash would be the perfect place for you and your has-been director."

Exasperated, Cash turned to him and jutted the crowbar up to his chin with a quick movement, making him flinch (and making several of the directors ooh and ahh in anticipation). "Listen, you fucker," he growled, "I didn't take down all of Starkweather's gangs _and_ the Cerberus _and_ the Carcer City PD so jealous psychos like you can talk shit about me. You got anyone with a record like that, I'll take 'em on."

"Now that's the sort of action I like to see," Starkweather said smugly, golf clapping. "You should talk more often, Cash, you have such a way with words--"

"And you should shut your fucking trap," Cash spat. Starkweather backed up a step. "I didn't come here looking for a fight, and if you weren't such a goddamn chatterbox--"

Before he could finish, he felt the other director's hand on his shoulder, pulling him back to face him. "If you're in snuff, then you're always looking for a fight," he said menacingly. "My boys are right outside. Why don't we see how you do in a fair fight?"

Before Cash knew it, he was on his ass in the alley behind the building. He scrambled to his feet quickly, gripping his crowbar as his senses reeled. "What the hell..." He looked up to see the directors in their coats, crowded onto the fire escape, talking amongst themselves and watching like hawks. Oh, those bastards.

In front of him were two scruffy, dirty figures, clad in what looked like--hubcaps and sheet metal, makeshift armor from whatever junkyard they came from. He sized them up quickly as they stepped forward: one of them had what looked like a rusty machete, while the other had a hatchet. He'd had worse odds before, but then again, this was going to be in a fair fight. Cash could hold himself in a mano-a-mano fist-fight, but he'd have to take his chances now.

"Come on, Cash, send 'em to hell!" Starkweather shouted from the fire escape. The one with the machete lurched forward, pulling the blade down through the air. Cash dodged out of the way and the metal clanged down to the ground, missing him, but not by enough for comfort.

Cash whipped around to get behind him and hooked the crowbar into the sheet metal, peeling a section of it off his shoulder before he had to duck to avoid another machete swipe. By this time the one with the hatchet was behind him, he knew, and he could only catch a glimpse of the descending edge before he rolled out of the way.

Back to square one, he thought, standing up again. "Quit pussyfooting around, Cash," came the jaded voice of the other director. Cash tried not to look up, instead focusing his attention on the men drawing closer. "I thought you were a snuff star, not a ballerina."

"Don't listen to him, you're doing fine!" Starkweather retorted. "Rush and you'll just get an axe in the head!"

_You shut up. If it weren't for you I wouldn't be risking it in the first place._ Cash decided to take a chance and rushed forward at the one with the machete--who stepped back hesitantly, caught off guard. Cash dug the crowbar into the exposed area between his shoulder and his neck, drawing it forward with a sick sound of the snapping tendons; with a gurgly cry, the Lost floundered blindly as Cash kicked him, safely disabled, to the floor.

"Excellent! Good work! Now for the other one."

"What the hell am I paying you idiots for?" the other director growled, leaning down over the fire escape. "I'll have your heads if you don't cut off his!"

The Lost with the hatchet lunged forward with a wild yell. Cash ducked reflexively and the hatchet sparked as it slammed into the brick wall above his head. Cash drew away from the wall, giving him some room as it came down again, blade flashing in the stark light of the alley.

His crowbar came up in a quick, precise movement, exactly in the right place at the right time, and with a powerful turn of his wrist the hatchet went sailing off into the dark, coming to a stop with a clatter upon the asphalt. "That's it, Cash!" Starkweather shouted. "Give it to him!"

The unarmed Lost was stunned and could only step back, gaping, as Cash reared back and slammed the hook of the crowbar into his face. With a strong pull he was thrown onto the ground, moaning, with his hands clamped over his mutilated face.

"That's enough, that's _enough!"_

Cash froze, in position, crowbar held up to deliver a final blow into the Lost's skull. The directors were hurrying down the stairs into the alley excitedly. "That's it, that's enough, we don't want dead bodies on our hands," the slighted executive growled, waving Cash away from the two prone figures. The one with the machete was sickly pale, with a hand clamped tight over the crook of his neck; blood pooled in the alley, and to be honest, Cash doubted that he'd make it through the night. The other one would at least have a nasty scar for the rest of his life. "Get him out of here, Starkweather."

"Gladly." Starkweather grabbed Cash's arm and led him out of the alley. "Here," he said, handing him his coat, which Cash quickly slipped on. "Wonderful work, just excellent," he gushed. "That'll be the last time they talk shit about us, believe me."

Cash looked over his shoulder at the crowd as he and Starkweather walked off. They were concerned with the Lost and the one director, but he saw Gacy's eyes fix themselves unblinkingly on his.

"Guess we won't be around for the awards ceremony. Like I wanted to stay with those philistines anyway. They have no taste."

Cash's clenched fists trembled. "So why the fuck did you drag me there in the first place?" he snapped. "So you could show me off to your pervert friends? So you could try to get me killed?"

"I wasn't trying to get you killed, Cash!" Starkweather laughed. He was _laughing._ Cash couldn't believe it. "I keep telling you, you're miles beyond anyone--ufhh!"

Almost of its own accord, Cash's hand shot out and gripped the director's collar, drawing him close, pulling him an inch or two off the ground. "I said I didn't come there looking for a fight," he growled dangerously, emphasizing his point with a sharp shake. Starkweather was breathless, looking up at him in wide-eyed fear. "And you dragged me into it, you son of a bitch. Do that again and I will kill you." He glared at him, hard and cold, voice pulsing with anger. "I will kill you."

"Cash..." Starkweather's voice trembled as he gripped Cash's hand. Then, a bit more steadily: "Put me down."

Cash let go of his collar as he felt the adrenaline slip away from his body. Wordlessly he and the director made their way back to the car, and as they drove back to the mansion, Cash leaned back and looked out the window, thinking over Gacy's words from earlier in the evening.

_Just imagine how many copies the 'Last Stand of James Earl Cash' would sell._

Was it a trap? Could Starkweather be getting bored of him and just be very good at hiding it? It would certainly explain the sudden idiotic risk he made Cash take. Now that he knew Cash wasn't going to walk out on his own, was he tightening the noose around his neck?

"Would you look at that," Starkweather murmured, though his words only barely reached his leading man. "It's starting to snow..."

**End of Chapter Four**


	5. Director's Cut

**Chapter Five: Director's Cut**

"What's wrong? You don't seem to be on your game tonight."

There was a subtle concern in Starkweather's voice, but it slipped under Cash's radar as he tried to keep his mind focused on the hunt. Try as he might, though, he couldn't get Gacy's thin, buzzing voice out of his head. Colored with paranoia, the shadows seemed to lengthen and sounds grow louder.

He nearly jumped out of his skin the next time Starkweather spoke. "Cash, pay attention!" the director hissed, getting impatient. "Stay focused or else you really _will_ rest in pieces. Go to the left."

"Yeah, all right." The soft hiss of breath that was his words was quick and fleeting, and he ducked into a corner in deep shadow. The Smileyz were pacing back and forth on the blacktop outside of the abandoned school, staring in the opposite direction from him, muttering to themselves as they often did. He could pick up a few snippets of their prattling; "give me back my shoes," for one thing, or "don't hit me, daddy."

He was getting distracted again. Damn it, damn that Starkweather...if it weren't for him, he wouldn't be so rattled. Cash drew in a breath and peered from around the corner of the dumpster. The Smileyz were still minding their own business, but once in a while he could see them pause and take a look around. Sniff the air. Weird behavior--or maybe it was just him.

The low "hmmm" that escaped from Starkweather didn't help him much either. "What?" he whispered, ducking back into the shadows. "What was it?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just getting bored, Cash! Come on, where's my favorite leading man gone off to? La-la land?"

Cash rolled his eyes. Better give the pushy jerk what he wanted before the sun came up. The Smileyz were safely scattered far away, so he strode out of the shadows confidently.

A few yards away from the dumpster, his shoe grazed a soda can littered on the ground, sending it clattering with a hollow, tinny sound across the asphalt. _Crap! Didn't see that there._ He quickly dove back behind the dumpster, peeved, but not worried. He'd done that before--usually it was on purpose, even, it'd bring the hunters close, one by one, so he could pick them off at his comfort. Nothing easi--

"Ha ha ha!" a raggedy, maniacal laugh tore through the cold air. "Hee hee, found little buzzy bee!"

Disconcertingly, Cash heard himself think and Starkweather say "what the fuck?" at the exact same time. Cash peeked out over the top of the dumpster to see two of the Smileyz _running_ towards his exact hiding spot, one of them brandishing a baseball bat, the other nothing but his solid fists. He felt the blood drain out of his face, but tried to keep under control, because who knows, they're insane, but they probably aren't going to go into the shadows for no good reason.

Like he'd predicted, they paused at the shadow line, flickering in the dim light of the broken lamps. "Little buzzy bee here?" the first Smiley giggled with a staccato sound, his muscles twitching restlesly as he glared back and forth. There was a weird pause, and then, without any warning, he lunged into the shadows, bat raised high. "Kill kill dead!"

From there, it took only half a second. "Shit--_uurgh!"_ Cash's head whipped to the side as the Smiley slammed the baseball bat into it, cackling. He didn't feel himself hit the ground until a second or two after the fact, and he could barely see through the thin film of blood over his face. Lagging senses could only register bursts of pain through his body, mostly on his stomach and sides. It was hard to tell what was the bat and what were the steel-toed boots.

His head reeled. He realized that his body was trying to drag itself away, and, at the same time, that it wasn't just this one Smiley. Through bleary, bloody vision, he saw forms of color that said to him _they called more, there are three of them--now four--get up, get up--_

"Cash! _Cash!_" Starkweather's voice, tinged with static, was sharp and piercing. "What the hell's going on down there?!" One of the Cerberus answered in an inaudible mumble. "Tell me about it later! Get down there and get him the fuck out of there or else I'll have your heads!"

_Get up, get up. You don't know it, but they're killing you,_ Cash told himself, told his numb body that lurched up from the concrete, gripping the brick, clinging to it stubbornly through the blows that rained down upon his back. How many bones had been broken by now? _Starkweather's_ _killing you. He's a good actor too and he's killing you._

With a loud, anguished cry, Cash turned and drove the brick he was holding into the skull of one of the Smileyz. He weaved and jerked, lashing out in the blindest sense of self-preservation and rage, while his mind went through a million different tracks at once. _The Cerberus aren't here yet. Will they ever be here? Starkweather, killing me. Gacy was right. Bye-bye, Cash, bye bye bye...the last stand of James Earl Cash._

With a massive effort he drew his body up to hold it steady, blind and numbed. He felt himself sagging down again, slowly (was it slowly?), but propped up by the arms of something close to him, and soon he was walking again, if half-stumbling, half-staggering could be called "walking."

There was a sense of motion, a sense of sound; "get him back" was all that he could catch before he collapsed onto something cool and metal. It must have been the back of the armored car, that was it. That was good.

Everything came into focus as he laid on the floor, recuperating. The Cerberus were talking above him in their dense, code-riddled talk he could barely make out through their masks. His body seemed to be covered in wounds, some sharp, most sore. They pulsed with a relentless pain, and beyond that he could feel his blood leak out, slowly, slowly.

Cash could make out a few phrases. "Jesus, those clowns did a number on him..."

"Fuckin' right. Wonder why Stark didn't just let them get 'im."

"Shut up, Reynolds," another one hissed. "Just get him back to the Director. He wanted him off the set, he's off the set. Chesney, you and me, we'll get him up to the room. Rest of you wait here."

They supported Cash on either side as they half-dragged him up the stairs. Starkweather was waiting outside his room and immediately strode over to meet his henchmen. "Get him in here!" He shouted, pulling Cash into the room. "Go on, get out," he said to the rest of the Cerberus, waving them away. "You go and find those sonofabitch Smileys!"

Cash's feet dragged on the granite of Starkweather's room as he sagged forward, feeling frustration and anger run along his veins. He felt the director's hands on him, propping him up. "Jesus, Cash..."

"Starkweather," he rasped, planting a palm on his shoulder and squeezing hard. "You...you bastard." He turned his bloodied face up at the other man as he forced his feet to steady, bearing him up. "You bastard!"

"Cash, what the hell are you doing?" Starkweather shouted, grabbing his wrist. "This isn't any time to fuck around, you're seriously--"

"You shut up! I told you--I told you I'd kill you!" Cash exploded, clutching Starkweather's shoulder and ramming him against the wall. "You sick fuck, you almost got me killed!" His head pulsed with pain. He had no idea how well those words had come out, but Starkweather, wide-eyed, seemed to have gotten the idea.

"I swear to God, Cash, it wasn't me," the director protested, putting his hands up defensively. "I'll swear on a stack of Bibles that I didn't tell them where you were! It was supposed to be a standard stealth flick, not a free-for-all!"

"Then how'd they find me so--ahh, god!" Cash groaned, letting go of the director to clutch at his other arm. "God damn it!" he hissed through gritted teeth. The pain was becoming unbearable. Each cut on his body was throbbing dull and hard, pumping out blood that ran down his clothes in rivulets.

"Cash, stay here, don't move," Starkweather said firmly, taking the opportunity to step out of his way and duck over behind his desk. In a quick movement that felt like it was setting his tendons on fire, Cash pulled out his revolver, cocked the hammer and aimed it straight at him. When he stood up, he was holding something in his hands.

"Don't you dare," Cash said through shuddering, ragged breaths. "I know what you'll do, you psycho. Gacy was right about you..."

"Gacy?" Starkweather repeated. "You talked to _Gacy?_" he said venomously, tensing up. "I knew I shouldn't have left you alone with him! You moron, this is just what he wants!"

"Y-you...shut up!" Cash shouted, hesitating only for a moment. A moment was all Starkweather needed to drop the white tin he was holding and lunge at Cash, knocking him over and sending the gun flying across the room. "God damn it!"

"Cut it out, you crazy son of a bitch!" Starkweather yelled, trying to pin him down. He straddled Cash's legs, fumbled with the tin box and pulled out some of what looked like hydrogen peroxide. "It's a first aid kit, okay? Just calm down and I won't have to call the Cerberus!"

Cash collapsed onto his back, panting heavily. His momentary tantrum had taken a lot out of him, especially considering all the wounds he still had, and in his disoriented state the last thing he needed was to come face to face with the Cerberus. "Jesus, you're bleeding all over the floor," Starkweather murmured, soaking a cloth in peroxide and trying to clean up the smaller cuts.

Quickly the director managed to messily bandage his wounds. Silently, the other man lay slumped on the floor, his breath misting over the granite. "That oughta do for now," he breathed, getting off of Cash and sitting next to him on the ground. "I'll call in someone from the hospital to come take a look at you. A good doctor who doesn't ask questions."

Cash mumbled something that resembled "...never done that before."

"I know, but I can't have you dying on me, okay?" Starkweather said, glaring at him. "With you thrashing around like that, I might have missed something somewhere." He turned away from Cash, running a hand through his hair and sighing in frustration.

Cash's breathing slowed and he turned his head to look at the director. There was a soreness in his stomach, something that wasn't from his wounds. "Starkweather," he said dully, trying to push himself up to sit. "I..."

"Go to sleep, Cash." The director didn't turn around or look over his shoulder. "Don't waste your breath right now."

"But...I..."

"Go to sleep."

---

_Talk about déja vu._

Cash opened his eyes to find himself back in Starkweather's bed, bandages wrapped around his body, feeling sore as all hell. If it weren't for the fact that Starkweather himself was sitting in a chair not too far away, he could have mistaken it for the morning after his execution--and near-execution. How many times could a guy cheat death?

Carefully he pushed himself up into a sitting position to get a better view. Starkweather looked up from a catalog he was reading as he heard the sheets rustle. "Good evening, Cash," he said, flipping the pamphlet down. He stood up and walked over to the side of the bed, laying the catalog down on the bureau as he looked his leading man over. "How're you feeling?"

Cash nodded, feeling stupid. "It's fine," he mumbled, glancing away. "I've had worse."

"The doctor was amazed you were in such good condition, considering you got the crap beat out of you by ten Smileys," Starkweather said, leaning over to cautiously place a hand on Cash's chest. "He checked everything out, sewed up some stuff, told me to keep you in bed for a couple days. Got you some painkillers, too--like we don't have enough of 'em around here."

"Thanks." Cash gave a little nod and sighed. "Hey...listen. About what I said..." Starkweather looked as if he were about to shoot back with some withering remark, but held his tongue. "I didn't mean it."

"You certainly sounded like you did," he replied, obviously restraining himself.

"Gacy just told me some stuff about you, put an idea into my head, that's all." Cash glanced away from him, trying to act nonchalant. "He told me something about how you kill off all your leading men. I thought I might be next, and when the Smileys found out where I was, well..."

Starkweather nodded, stroking his beard. "He did, huh? I think I get it now." He sat down on the edge of the bed. "You know...I wouldn't do that to you, Cash. I mean, I did, that one time," he said, chuckling darkly, "but you showed me that you could handle anything I threw at you. So when I promised you that I'd keep you alive, I meant it."

"But..." Cash hesitated, not really wanting to mention it, but feeling that it needed an answer. "Gacy told me that you'd sell more copies if I died during filming."

Starkweather shook his head. "He was just trying to psyche you out, Cash. The audience loves you," he said, leaning over closer to him. "You bring in a hell of a lot more cash than Piggsy did, that's for sure. I can't lose someone like you."

Cash was silent for a moment longer, then made up his mind and turned to him again. "How many guys did you kill before me, Starkweather?"

"Cash..."

"I just want to know is all."

"A lot." Starkweather glanced off to the side with an expression that the other man couldn't read. "They don't matter, though, and I don't care if you think I'm lying or not. They weren't tough like you, not quick on their feet. A lot of them gave up halfway through the night. None of them could have even taken on the Cerberus," he said, with an undertone of awe in his voice. "I'm still wondering how the hell you managed that one."

Cash grinned at him, pushing himself up a little. "Practice. It was easy...since I had such a good director to show me the ropes."

"Oh, you're flattering me," Starkweather said sardonically. "Anyway, if that wasn't what I'd call biting the hand that feeds you, I don't know what is. So don't keep trying to kill me...we're on the same level now, aren't we?"

"The same level?" Cash repeated blankly. Now that he thought about it, it made sense, but until that point he hadn't considered it that way at all. Funny...even after they'd started working together, he imagined Starkweather up on some sort of untouchable pedestal, the director above, the actor below. _But that's not how it works,_ he thought to himself, his eyes locked on Starkweather's face. _He gave all that up when he decided to keep me around._

"I saved your life, you spared me mine. You act, I film, we split the proceeds. We're partners," he emphasized, and, after a moment of hesitation, he suddenly held out his hand. "So we should probably start acting like it, Cash."

Cash regarded his hand for a few seconds. "I gotta shake it?" Starkweather just rolled his eyes and gave him a hard look, pushing his hand out further. "Fine, okay. Partners in crime," he said, trying to hide a smile as he grabbed Starkweather's hand. "So what happens now?"

"Well, I'm not going to be able to film for a few days," Starkweather groaned, sitting back in the chair. "The Cerberus rounded up the Smileys and found out that Gacy offered some of 'em a chance to transfer to the Clownz if they killed you. The crazier ones hate the Clownz too much to do it, but the saner guys who wanted to move up in pack ranking went for it."

"Damn. So what did you do, suspend them or something?"

"Suspend them? They almost killed you, Cash," Starkweather exclaimed. "I had the Cerberus round up the guys who sold you out and now their brains are all over the asylum walls. It was only ten guys, I can get more," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And now the other gangs will have to be questioned to see if Gacy's said anything to them."

Cash let out a hmm as he thought. "Hey, Starkweather. It hasn't gotten out that I'm still alive, right?"

"Shouldn't have. The only one who really knows aside from us is the doctor, and Gacy doesn't know about him."

"Good." Cash grinned up at him. "I got an idea. Since you can't do any filming, shut everything down. Keep the gangs under control but make it look like I'm dead."

Starkweather gave him an incredulous look. "Why?"

The grin widened. "Gimme a night or two to rest up and I'll show you."

**End of Chapter Five**


End file.
